Birthday Party

It was a basement party – they put black lights in and mixed bacardi silver into the red kool-aid pitcher. We were below a pool table because someone was already on top. My right arm fell asleep as it cradled the neck that never used to want my attention, so I shrugged off the pain. Someone kept putting on Radiohead and it’d end and get put on again. So we watched ankles dance around more ankles, cylindrical dances of hopelessly thankless attempts to show that their burden was rhythmic and spry. All girls want to sleep with a metrical guy; anyway, I was saying I wish that they’d change the music to something more upbeat. You feigned indifference -mannequin still, eyes of dead clover were trained on the feet. And I curled my left shoulder up into the air, and looked down at the border of fair skin and hair on the top of your head and then bravely said nothing but kissed you instead.